Reckoning
by Ninjagirl2211
Summary: All the key players are separated, scattered to the four corners of Alagaësia, and two have left her indefinitely...maybe forever. Their story is over, their part in history, played. Or is it? Enter Nælla: a young girl searching for purpose, and freedom to choose her own fate. Will she find it? As plague, paranoia, and hatred, spread from an unknown source...let the reckoning begin


**A/N: My first fanfic for the Inheritance Cycle. Tried to get everything as accurate and realistic as possible. I did my research, but please Review or PM me with criticism or suggestions. I have a LOT of crazy shit planned for this fic...if I even get that far. Reviews help, so...**

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**Chapter 1: The Curious Fate of Nælla Maisiestóttir**

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It was hatching day.

Every child of age was to be gathered in the town square, where each of their hands would touch a dragon egg. You'd think most kids would be thrilled beyond their wildest dreams…but things were not always as they seemed. Sure, it seemed a fantastical, wild adventure to become one of the new riders…but once a dragon hatched for you, you were sent off god knows where and you never, _ever_, came back. Times were changing, that much was certain…but Kuasta had never been a place that handled change gracefully…

Honestly, if you took a look at the town now, to how it was a hundred and some score years ago, not much had changed. The buildings were the same, the streets were the same, the families were the same, granted, the faces in them had changed subtly over the years—the elders, replaced gradually by their children, and their children, and so on… Nælla was from one such family…though it had…dwindled. It was just she and her father now, since her mother had passed three winters back. A sudden chill that had swiftly transformed into a violent cough; it was fast and progressive enough to take her in little under a month. The two left behind had mourned bitterly for long afterwards. Her father had never fully recovered from the blow…

The sky out over the harbor that morning was as clouded as her troubled thoughts. Nælla sat perched upon her favorite spot out on the edge of the docks, feeling the damp salty air on her slightly red cheeks and the spray of the sea. It was her preferred spot to practice her drawings. At the moment she was experimenting with her designs. The charcoal stick she had with her was a bit crude for what she was attempting, but it would suffice for the time being. She was working on an intricate margin frame for a certain page in her art book. She drew all sorts of things, but her main focus was margin borders. Her father was an Illuminator, and so, naturally, Nælla was to follow in his footsteps. She still wasn't as good as he was, and neither of them would ever outshine her mother…but her father insisted that she was progressing fantastically, always calling her his little 'protégée.' She sighed as a speckle of rain dampened her page and frowned anxiously at the sky, closing her sketching book softly before standing. She supposed it was time to get it over with.

They came every five years or so—the riders. Nælla had been six years old the first time she saw a dragon. She was terrified, and struck with awe at the same time. But unlike other towns, Kuasta didn't hold grand festivals, ceremonies for the hatching day, or welcome Arya and her new riders—in fact, most regarded the elves with superstition and mistrusts…though that was nothing new in Kausta, lest you counted the people up at the Arcaena Reliquary. They were the ones who accommodated the riders and their procession during their brief stay.

"Father," Nælla knocked on the doorframe lightly three times before entering the room quietly. She'd been doing it for so long it had become habit, just like everyone else in the town followed the strange custom no one knew the origin of any longer. The entire house was stacked up with precarious towers of books and scrolls. The Arcaena frequently contacted father since the fall of the King, and he was nearly always in his study working on the newly minted copies of the _Domia Abr Wyrda_. Since they weren't _banned_ any longer, the Arcaena wanted to spread the knowledge of the history of Alagaësia all throughout the land. The monks had been busy as ever, scribing new editions that were worded in common tongue—so _everyone_ could understand the true history of the land; not the drabble Galbatorix had been feeding the people.

Even Nælla had her own edition of the book now. Her father had seen to it that she received a specially bound and personally illuminated copy for her sixteenth birthday nigh on three weeks ago. She'd been delighted, of course. Nælla had always loved reading—fitting, since their family profession required a close relationship with books and scripts of all kinds. She specifically loved the tales that depicted the trials of great adventures, important events, and even more so…the stories that seemed too impossible to be real. Secretly, she wanted to write some of her own one day, but she was an Illuminator, not a scribe, and that was that.

"Father," Nælla said again as she entered his study. He was hunched over his writing desk situated under the window. Since the sky was overcast that day, he wasn't getting the best lighting, and so some candles had been lit and filled the room with the sounds of crackling wicks. When he finally looked up from the latest special edition of the _Domia Abr Wyrda_ he was working on, he smiled gently at her, and she returned it however solemnly, "I'll need to be going soon, I think. The Hatching will have started by now…I hope they're not mad at me for being late."

"Don't look so grim now, Dear," He turned on his special swivel seat and tapped her chin up with his knuckle fondly as he'd done ever since she was a small child, "I'm sure you'll turn out fine. After all, there wasn't a child taken from this town the last two times they were here, and I'm sure nothing will have changed this time 'round, eh?"

"Yeah…" She smiled softly at the floor, hiding her anxiety, "I hope you're right about that…"

"Though…there's nothing to be ashamed about," He suddenly told her, his face completely serious, "If one of those eggs hatches for you Nelly…I can honestly say, I wouldn't be surprised in the least."

Her eyes widened, and she felt her stomach twist unpleasantly as she asked in a small voice, "Why…what would make you think such a thing, Papa?"

He hesitated somewhat before telling her quietly, "…I heard tell that our great uncle Brom was a rider, you see, a long, _long_ time ago. He was one of the last to fall…very stubborn that one. Kausta, born and raised, and a little like _you_ if Aunt Tilda's mind hasn't gone too rotten." He added with a smile, "_She's_ the one who told me all this, mind you, so take it with a grain of salt."

Nælla felt relief almost overwhelm her at the picture of poor, old Aunt Tilda's, vacant, liver spotted face that appeared in her mind's eye, "Well, that makes me feel better. I don't think I've ever been so thankful for Auntie's senility in my life."

They both laughed at that until her father waved his hands at her dismissively, "Now, go, go! You don't want them to be too angry with you, do you?"

She set her sketching book down on his desk before quickly leaning in and giving him a peck on his slightly sunken cheek, "Love you, Papa. Don't work too hard. I'll be home soon to make dinner." She then turned on her heel and dashed out the door, her three taps on the doorframe nearly imperceptible as she went, simple blue skirt billowing behind her.

She wasn't expecting them to wait for her. She stumbled over her apologies before the imposing elf that was Arya—leader of the new riders of Alagaësia—until she cut her off in a voice sharp as a stinging blade of grass, "Silence. You've delayed us long enough with your tardiness. Do not make us wait longer with your excuses. If you are to become Shur'tugal, much more will be expected of you." She addressed the small group of sixteen year old children as a whole, making an example out of Nælla's mistake, "Do you all understand this?"

There was a choras of hesitant nods, maybe a, "Yes, Ma'am," here and there as Arya's slanted eyes surveyed each and every one of them critically. Nælla recognized a few—Seamus, a fisherman's son, she knew from the docks, and Hera, a shipbuilder's daughter. All the children she recognized were from relatively low income families. The others…she wasn't quite sure.

"Stand in line with the others." Arya instructed her firmly, casting a dismissive look over Nælla's diminutively soft features. She was relatively small in stature, with a thick, dark, sheets of hair that fell straight down her back, and bangs that framed her blue, blue eyes. She mostly had her mother's looks, which her father was endlessly thankful for.

She decided to stand beside Seamus at the end of the line. She knew him well. He was always nice to her, and sometimes sat next to her when she'd go down to practice her drawings at the docks. He liked her designs, and she thought she'd even sketched him once and given him the result. She was relatively adept at drawing faces if their owners happened to stay still every once in a while, which Seamus had a hard time doing, it seemed. He shifted from foot to foot and sent her a shaky smile, murmuring to her as Arya discussed something about preparation with one of their caravan members, "I see you're as on time as usual—which is to say not at all. Big day, huh?"

"Aye," Nælla agreed with a nod, "the biggest." She met his smile tentatively then, recovering from her previous humiliation, "I just hope it's over soon… Sometimes it's better to take a bandage off a wound quickly, you know?"

"Actually…that's not _exactly_—"

"It's a figure of speech, Seamus. Don't read too much into it." She supplied, sending him a knowing smile, her eyes crinkling softly at the corners with amusement.

He pouted at her and grumbled, "You know I can't _read_, show off."

"That's not what I…you know what? Just pretend I didn't say anything at all." She shook her head with a sad smile, and met his eyes genuinely, "Let's just go home together, okay?"

His tawny hazel eyes lit up at that and he grinned, "Yes. I'd much rather be doing that." He raised his closed fist in determination, "Let's pray for good luck for the both of us, eh?"

She smiled at the irony, "Or bad luck. We're hoping for bad luck in this case."

He shook his head in bemusement, "You know, Nelly, I'm sorry, but sometimes I really don't understand what goes on in that pretty little head of yours…"

"You, and everyone else." She chuckled quietly at him, her cheeks reddening slightly. Seamus admittedly wasn't too bright, but he was kindhearted, and Nælla liked to think of him as…a close friend.

"Bring them out." Arya called, and no sooner or later than she did so, did a line of handlers proceed to place six stands, covered with sheets, in a line before them. Arya approached the one on the end with carefully placed steps, as if retracing the ones she'd trekked the last time she'd been in Kuasta. She then reached out and suddenly ripped the sheet off of what looked to be a huge, round, polished, and perfectly refined hunk of amethyst. Everyone stared at what was obviously the first of the dragon eggs. Arya surveyed the children again and her voice rang out, "All of you know what this is, and why you are here. As I have said, as shur'tugal, much will be expected of you. If you are chosen, you must go through many harrowing trials and journeys to truly rise as one of the riders." Her eyes met each of theirs in turn, as she continued to proceed down the line, tugging the sheets from each of the eggs as she reached them; shining, glowing gold, a murky brown, bright orange, "…Things were different long ago, when dragon eggs were plentiful and times were prosperous. But now…our precious things simply cannot be wasted on those without…drive…potential…" She concluded with, pulling off another sheet forcefully, a slick, shining black, glistening like oil in the sun, "If you are chosen, you will be expected to rise higher than _any_ rider before you. Your name will be written down in the history of Alagaësia because you are the shapers of the _future_. You will have no choice but to become great… If you are not ready for this responsibility, or unwilling, then I highly suggest you leave now." She moved on to the last egg and slipped off its sheet to reveal a luminescent, almost metallic silver. Nælla had never seen anything like it.

Several of them looked around at each other nervously. They had been given a way out, a chance to leave and never look back at the wretched ceremony that could change their lives in every shape and form. But if the residents of Kuasta were strange, superstitious, or even untrusting, those things were nothing in comparison to the pride of this town. And when Nælla looked around at her follow residents, she felt a glow in her chest when she saw that none, even those in the upper class had seen fit to flee. If it was their fate, than the proud citizens of Kuasta would face it with the strength of the cruel sea in their veins.

It was then that she saw Arya smile for the first time, her forest green eyes glowing, "…Shall we begin with the one on the end?" She pointed out Hera, who noticeably stiffened, but squared her shoulders and walked forward bravely. She tremulously placed her palm on the amethyst egg, and they all waited, but after a good minute, Arya prompted her, "Next."

And so it went, all the way down the line to the next child, and the next, until finally, it was Seamus's turn. She squeezed his hand quickly and wished him, "Good luck!"

He sent her back a smile and replied, "I was under the impression that we were wishing for bad luck." She grinned back at him and nodded, praying upon her ancestors that he would be walking her home after this and all the foolish worrying would be for nothing. But, like all the other children, nothing happened. In all the previous hatchings, it was the same. No child from Kuasta had yet to become one of the new riders. Maybe it was in the blood—something about breathing the sea air that the tiny unhatched dragons didn't like. She didn't know, but she hoped it was strong within her.

"Now, for our little _Kvána'sief_… Latecomer, step forward." Nælla didn't know what _Kvána'sief_ meant, but she was sure it wasn't complimentary. Probably something to do with being late, as Arya seemed to like pointing out. You'd think an ageless elf would learn to be more patient…

Now that all the other children had gathered, standing off to the side, safe, their eyes were locked on her, as well as all the adults gathered in the square. Swallowing down her fear, Nælla did as she was instructed and gave the amethyst egg a reproachful look before reaching forward to touch the tips of her fingers to it reluctantly. Nothing; she felt nothing but the cold, nearly icy chill of the smooth, polished shell. Something in her instinctually shied away and she pulled her hand back almost immediately. She sent a look at Arya, meeting her eyes in question, then another at the amethyst egg, slightly disturbed for reasons she couldn't quite describe, then moved on.

She touched the golden egg next, and felt inexplicable, almost intolerable, warmth exuding from it-the exact opposite of the amethyst. Two extremes, and though the gold was vastly more tolerable than the amethyst, neither one of them was bearable. She removed her hand just as quickly as the last time and moved on to the brown, a cool and relaxing feeling. After that, she calmed down a bit more and moved on to the next one after nothing happened once again—orange, which revived her jitters tenfold, and black which, like the first, she jerked her fingers from almost immediately. She wondered if it was this way for everyone else that touched one of the colorful orbs. Was this a hint of what the dragons inside them were like? She didn't want to know. She just wanted it to be over.

Finally, she reached her fingers out for the metallic silver, like the shiny sword she'd seen the blacksmith polishing when she'd passed the store on the way to the butcher's, but…more pure. It was like the reflection of the moon on the sea at night. It was…pleasant, in a way—soothing, like the trickle of water over your fingers in a cool stream with little, silver fish darting in and around them. But besides that…there was nothing, and after a minute, Nælla drew her hand back and took a step away, relief overflowing from her. No dragon had hatched for her. She was safe.

"And so this time, again…there are none." Arya's voice sounded so disappointed that Nælla felt her heart reach out to her in inexplicable sympathy. She even felt the need to apologize to the strange elf for some reason, but before she could open her mouth to do so, Arya's face was wiped clean of emotion and she addressed the group gathered around, "As liaison to the riders here in Alagaësia, we thank you for your cooperation. That will be all." Nælla stared up at the tall elf woman who had gone from terribly sad to stiffly professional all in a matter of seconds with curiously and as the crowd began to move about their daily tasks once more, Arya caught her standing in the exact same place she had been before in front of the silver egg. She arched a thin, dark brow at her and questioned sharply, "Are you to be tardy to your next appointment as well, _Kvána'sief_?"

Nælla furrowed her brow at the unfamiliar word, "What name do you call me? What does it mean?"

At that, Arya gave her a mysterious smile and answered cryptically, "It means you should arrive on time…"

She frowned at the unfair reply and was about to probe for more elaboration but was cut off when Seamus grabbed her hand and pulled her into the fray, "Let's go, Nell! Hurry now! I must go and tell Mother I've not been kidnapped by elves!"

"_Seamus_!" Nælla reprehended him, "Father says they're not here to _kidnap_ anybody! They're just—" She sent a look back over her shoulder to see that Arya had disappeared.

"Yes, yes, I've heard it all and then some." He pulled her through the crowd, "My mother owns a tavern, you know. I've got good ears."

"And what sort of drabble have you been listening to _now_ Seamus?" Hera joined in the conversation as she saddled up alongside them from within the throng of the bustling street.

"Oh, you know, this and that. Bits and pieces, here and there." He was oblivious to the teasing tones in her voice and went on, anxiously, "There's tales of unrest in the new empire. The assassination attempts on Queen Nasuada still haven't ceased, apparently. Everyone's become paranoid. They're thinking of building a new capital city and replacing the old aristocracy completely! Can you imagine it? Lord Athis might be out of a job."

Nælla stared thoughtfully as Hera frowned and scoffed, "Politics…ugh. Is there anything more depressing?"

"Oh, sure." Seamus was, as usual, indifferent to the sarcasm, but he went on more quietly after looking over both shoulders as if to make sure not too many people were listening, "There's rumors…of a _plague_."

"Plague?" Hera's eyes widened a bit, "What do you mean, a _plague_?"

"Just that." He affirmed, "Sickness, no cure, burning, painful death. Plague. It's supposed to have originated from up north, and it's spreading quickly. Nobody knows what it is and physicians are too cowardly to go near the afflicted."

"North…" Nælla mused quietly, then stated, "…The _riders'_ caravan came from the north."

Both Hera and Seamus halted in the middle of the bustling street to stare back at her, and Hera gasped, "No…you don't think they brought it _with_ them, do you?"

"Now, don't go spreading rumors like _that_…" She sent them both a stern look, "I only meant that we might go inquire with them and see if their news is any more accurate than ours. You can't get much better than a _rider_ to tell you the state of affairs. They know _everything_ that's going on. Right?"

"Yes, however…" A bit of a tremor went through Seamus's shoulders, and he shook his head with the word, somehow used as an expletive, "_Elves_…"

"Oh, _please_." Nælla rolled her eyes, "They're not that frightening. They're just…a bit odd. That's all."

"'That's all!'" Seamus mimicked her voice, then went on skeptically, "Truly? Nelly, you are either the bravest person I have ever met, or just plain unintelligent."

She stopped, and sent him a tepid, deeply indignant glare, growling darkly, "It _takes_ one to _know_ one, Yeagersson. Now, if you'll both excuse me, I really should be going."

"Nælla, wait!" Hera perused her and grabbed her arm to halt her departure, "You know he didn't mean it that way—"

"Don't make excuses for him." Nælla snapped at her waspishly, her pale blue eyes narrowing with the nasty feeling of jealousy, "You can save that for when you're married and have twenty children, yes?"

Hera's usual stone hard grip—fingers callused from her work at the shipyard—went slack, allowing Nælla to snatch her arm back and storm off. It must've been a shock to hear, and Nælla regretted it almost immediately. It wasn't like her to be cruel to her friends, or anybody really, but it had been bothering her immensely for a long time now. Seamus fancied Hera. It was obvious to everyone but the girl in question, and suffice to say, it left Nælla…well, simply put—heartbroken. To say she was envious was a gross understatement. She didn't exactly understand her own feelings for the absurd boy herself but she knew that the feelings of bitterness and rage she held in her chest whenever she saw the two of them together did not have good implications.

She didn't want to hurt her friends, but to tell the truth, it was not the first time she'd lashed out at them. In consequence, she'd been isolating herself recently, spending most of her time with her father in his work room, learning more about their trade than she'd ever committed herself to before. He was, as always, wonderfully impressed with her development and frequently showered her with praise and smiles. It heartened her to know she could always turn to him for anything, and though her father knew there was something wrong, she was immensely grateful that he didn't interrogate her about it. He knew she would tell him in her own time, and when that time came, she knew he would be there to listen. She did not know what she would do without him.

At other times, like now, she went down to the beach to reflect in silence and collect her thoughts as she watched the sun sinking behind the horizon. The colors it cast on the persistently overcast clouds painted the sky in muted tones of ruby red. "_Red sky at morning, sailors, take warning; Red sky at night, sailors, delight_." She hummed thoughtfully. A good omen, perhaps?

Unlike the white, sandy shores of Surda, with their palm trees and exotic fruits, the shores of Kausta's harbor were course and rocky, dotted with barnacles, seaweed, and whole colonies of tide pools. One must always wear sturdy shoes and take heed when exploring since there was always the risk of falling or stepping on something sharp and unforgiving…and it might just bite back. But Nælla loved the pools. She could sit and watch the little ecosystems—worlds unto themselves—for hours and hours. Several of the inhabitants, like the spiny anemones, twisty-shelled sea snails, and the starfish, were featured in her illuminations, and so she would often take her workbook and sketch away. Other times, she would go hunting for tasty looking fish, trapped from the low tide. Seamus had taught her how to catch them with her bare hands when they were small…but she didn't want to think of him at the moment.

Instead of catching fish, or drawing the aquatic fauna, however, a rather large, barnacled clam caught her eye. Upon closer inspection, bending over the tide pool, she stared intently as she noted that it was probably the largest she'd ever seen; it was about as big around as a small _dinner plate_… It appeared very old, covered in barnacles and other sea debris—she noted that it must've been swept in by the last big storm they'd gotten. Immensely curious, she stretched out her hands and extracted it from the sizable pool, careful not to fall in. She then fished her father's pocket knife from the apron of her plain blue dress and slipped the thin blade between the tightly clasped lips of the mollusk. It took all her strength just to get it open…but when she did, her eyes widened to saucers. It certainly was a lucky day, no doubt…

"Father!" She knocked three times on the doorframe before entering the room, "Father, you must see what I've—"

She stopped abruptly at the sight of the familiar figure. His face was blank, and haggard, stubbled cheeks looking more sunken than ever. For the first time, she noticed more grey patches in his dark hair than she could ever remember him having before, and his eyes looked shadowed when he asked her softly, "Where have you been…?"

"I…I went down to the shore to…clear my head. A lot of strange things happened…and…a quarrel…I…" She trailed off with her excuses, and decided to cut her losses, "I apologize for my late return. None of the eggs hatched. Not for Hera, nor for Seamus—"

"Hera and Seamus are not the ones I am concerned with." Her father interrupted her sharply, then rose from his chair with some strain, "You're no longer a child, Nælla, but a young _woman_. You simply cannot disappear from the world at your leisure without notifying anyone to your whereabouts." He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, "If your mother were here, she would explain these things better… There are… certain things a woman must learn before marriage, and you mother—"

"Is _dead_." Nælla emphasized harshly, and she saw her father flinch jerkily, an expression of _pain_ flashing across his face for the briefest of moments before he withdrew into himself. But she didn't stop there, "And as for marriage, the only one I'd ever _consider_ for such a thing already fancies someone else… I will not marry. I will carry on the family trade with—"

"That is not up for _you_ to decide…" He cut her off firmly, straightening his shoulders and regarding her severely, "Admittedly, I have been soft with you since…your mother passed, and, consequentially, you have clearly forgotten your place within this household. I am your father, and you, my daughter—therefore you will do as I bid and deem fit. Is that perfectly understood?"

She stared at him for a long moment, stunned. She then felt a crescendo of cold, gut-wrenching dread, mixed with a sense of chilling betrayal. The turmoil inside her escalated so strongly that tears welled in her eyes involuntarily, and her fingers raised unsteadily to her trembling lips before she spun on her heal and raced up the stairs into her small bedroom at the end of the short, narrow hallway. Her quarters, a tiny eight by six rectangular room, consisted of a modest bed and nightstand with a slanted roof and a small, four-pained window painted with flaking white alabaster. It was built into the roof wall, and so instead of looking down to the cobblestoned streets, she had a view of the sky…but tonight, all she saw was the faint glow of the moon behind the adamantly overcast clouds… She stared up through it anyway though, just as a fat, heavy raindrop pelted down, signaling the start of that night's downpour…as her own tears fell sluggishly down her flushed cheeks.

Her father had never spoken to her like that before. And it mainly wasn't the way he talked to her so much as the disturbing conclusions that his words had driven her to. In the world she lived in…Nælla had no choice but to submit her future to the will of others. Her fate…was out of her control. As her father had reminded her, '_That is not up for _you_ to decide_…' She had thought they were different, that her father understood her, that they shared some form of _special_ bond as parent and child… But it was clear to Nælla in that moment that she was ever so very mistaken. For a heartbeat, her mind took a radical turn, and contemplated simply running away from it all—seizing freedom with her own two hands and making her own way in life…but where would she go? What allies did a lone woman, by herself, defenseless in the big, wide, fathomless world _have_? The answer was that there _were_ none; only enemies.

In her apron pocket, she clutched the perfectly round, human-eyeball-sized pearl she'd extracted from the oyster at sunset. It was the same, metallic silver color she'd seen of the last dragon egg she'd touched that afternoon. She wished the same pleasant feeling that had overwhelmed her back then would return whilst she ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the pearl. It was a black pearl. She'd often seen them at some of the traders' stalls whenever they made it to this side of the spine—which _wasn't_ particularly often. She remembered them specifically, since her mother loved them so, but was unable to afford one of the beautiful necklaces… Nælla tried to imagine the face her mother would've made upon seeing the gargantuan sized treasure and couldn't help but smile softly, despite the tears. Her heart still hurt, but her memories were warm, and in those, she took solace.

_I miss her so much…_

At that Nælla's lips trembled and her eyes stung as more tears wet her cheeks. Clutching the pearl tightly, she knew she would never sell it, though she knew without a doubt the sale price might fetch her a small fortune if she played her cards right. But to her, it was a reminder of something precious and dear…and so she unlooped the key she kept tied on a string around her neck and deposited the treasure in her nightstand drawer before clicking the key again and replacing it over her head once more. It was a place for secret things—some of which held no value to anyone but herself—a thimble, an acorn, a shiny rock. All were things that held some memory of importance. Then, of course, there was her journal. She hadn't entered in it for a while…and was too mentally exhausted, sad, hopeless, depressed to start it up again. In fact, she was so tired that she fell asleep in her day clothes, and when she awoke, she didn't even remember closing her eyes.

They were almost swollen shut from the tears, but she rubbed them with her soothingly chilled hands and blinked through it blearily. It was then that the noise that had woken her sounded once again, this time more intently—a rap at the door. She yawned and looked up at her window. It was still dark, and raining. It must've been late into the night… She wondered who could be calling at such an hour, but got to her feet anyway, her toes curling when they touched the freezing wood floor. She heard her father's snores sounding from his bedroom on the other end of the short hallway. He was a very heavy sleeper, and she wasn't surprised that he didn't wake at the sound of the knocking. Still, she was careful not to make a sound as she crept down the stairs. She knew every creak and crack in the old house, and traced her old, worn in footsteps with care as she descended.

There was another rap on the door, but she hesitated a moment before opening it. She had a strange feeling…and it wasn't just because of the midnight guest. Something in her gut was sending her heart aflutter, and she didn't understand what it could be…but she supposed the only logical course of action would be to open the door and find out what the intruder wanted… But when she turned the handle and slide aside the deadbolt, she was stunned to see none other than Queen Arya standing on her door stoop.

She wore a deep emerald green, hooded cloak, held together with a broach that looked like an actual emerald, but Nælla couldn't tell in the poor lighting without a candle. Her face, angular, and agelessly beautiful, was severe and serious as always, framed by long tresses of raven hair with a golden band gracing her brow. Standing on either side of her were two similarly garbed elven men who appeared to be her guards. For a moment, Arya seemed as surprised as Nælla felt, but it was only a flash of the radiant green irises hidden beneath her voluminously long lashes, and then her eyes examined her critically from head to foot and took on a knowing look, "I suppose it be only fitting that fate would see the two of you together…after all, you are _both_ _Kvána'siefir_."

Nælla stared at her in utter confusion and opened her mouth to let out a stream of questions, or accusations—she didn't know which—but in the end, she couldn't utter a word. Because at that very moment, a small, silver, triangular head that glimmered, even in the darkness, darted out from between the lapels of Arya's cloak to stare at her with luminous, pearly irises. And in the end…instead of letting out her questions…Nælla let out a scream.

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**The Ancient Language:**

**Kvána'sief(ir)**—Late Arrival(s)

**Shur'tugal**—Dragon Rider

**A/N: Do you need a reminder?**


End file.
